Tales of Secret Love
by snoopctm
Summary: A series of vignettes in the lives of Sister Bernadette/Shelagh and Patrick Turner, and how a certain song came to mean so much to them. Eventual spoilers for CtM series 6.
1. Chapter 1--One Song, Three Days

_**April 1954**_

The young sister packed up her bag, briskly and efficiently as always, amid the soft cooing and fussing of the new mother behind her, beaming over her brand new daughter, delivered not so long before. Sister Bernadette smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet happiness of the scene around her. In the bustling East End, delivery rooms weren't usually this subdued, but this new mother, Nancy Wright, was very young and soft-spoken, and had let her mother, Mrs. Ames, do most of the talking. For Mrs. Wright, it had been groaning and pushing and hoping, and it had been a relatively swift labor, especially for a first child. The mother was young, barely 21, only married about a year or so, but she had shown much less in the way of anxiety than Sister Bernadette had seen in mothers 10 years this woman's senior. The Sister had seen a great deal of variety and commotion in her six years as a midwife, but this had been a fairly simple, uncomplicated day with an especially compliant patient who made very little noise and greeted her new child with a kind of hushed awe, as her mother laughed and cheered before stepping out to inform Mr. Wright, who had been waiting beside a neglected cup of tea in the next room, unable to sit still for long and nervously fiddling with the radio every few minutes, as evidenced by the sounds that wafted into the room from next door, ranging from news to a selection of music from classical to popular, creating an odd soundtrack for the delivery but not disturbing the mood. All had gone well, and Sister Bernadette was pleased.

The clean-up was as uneventful as the birth, and before too long, the Sister was packed up and on her way, as the excited new father was ushered into the room, gazing with wide eyes upon his wife and new daughter, a broad grin spreading across his face, leaving the song on the radio to play—the plaintive voice of a woman singing what sounded like a love song. A lush string section played, backed by a rhythmic horse-like beat.. "Thank you, Sister," said Mrs. Ames as Sister Bernadette gathered her bag and headed for the door, and the singer's voice grew triumphant. The sister nodded and smiled as the older woman followed her out, stepping to the large old wooden radio to turn the dial just as Sister Bernadette reached the door. The song was silenced, but for some reason the joyous tone of the singer's voice lingered in the Sister's memory. She hadn't caught many of the lyrics—something about a "secret love" and shouting from the hills, but the string section and the measured beat that sounded like a horse's steady trot had implanted itself in her memory, and it was still there as she wheeled her bicycle to the shed after the short ride back to Nonnatus. It was a cool, surprisingly sunny Spring day, and the Sister ascended the stairs with her usual energy, humming absently until she reached the door.

 _ **July 1958**_

The sun had long-since set when Sister Bernadette arrived. A long delivery had left her weary. She caught her breath as she reached the top of the Nonnatus stairs, opened the door and ambled into the entryway, to be greeted by dim silence. She glanced around, looking toward the kitchen, but she could see nor hear nothing. The shadowy corridors loomed with their familiar darkness as the Sister stopped in the doorway to the sitting room. Empty, as well. There to greet her was the old, worn furniture as a single low lamp light flickered, leaving a dim glow. The dimness echoed her mood, thought the sister. It had been a good delivery—simple and straightforward, despite its length. A happy mother, a suitably bewildered father, a grateful grandmother. Everything as usual as could be, and the Sister had conducted the delivery in her usual efficient manner, trying to maintain an even, cheerful tone as she went through the motions of a fairly normal delivery. All had been well, but the shadows that surrounded her now mirrored those that had resided her in her own mind for months now, and especially after last week. It seemed now that no matter how quiet the room, there would never be peace in her own head.

Images, thoughts, memories swirled and loomed, leaving a weariness in their wake. She sighed softly as she leaned against the door frame briefly before softly stepping into the room, sinking into an armchair and fixing her gaze ahead, at the silent, unmoving wall. She should be in the clinical room, emptying her bag, organizing her tools, going through the time-worn routine that she had followed for most of the past ten years. Today, however, it was too much. Too much to think. Too much to feel. Idleness was not in her nature, but lately everything had been turned upside down, and her brain was anything but idle. A few minutes in the quiet, in the darkness, alone, would maybe do her good. Perhaps she could at least push away that face—that careworn, weary, kind, handsome face with the crooked smile and the dark eyes—perhaps she could forget it for just a moment or two.

But no, it was not to be. That face had lived in her mind, in her heart, in her dreams, and his voice—his quiet, simple apology—lingered in her memory. When, and how, could she ever forget?

At last, after what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, she arose and continued on with her task. The clinical room was empty but someone had left the light on, and it didn't take long to carry out her long-practiced routine. She glanced at the call board as she plodded past the telephone on her way back to her quarters, not taking note of who was next in line. She shrugged as she wandered past, her goal simply to get to bed, and as she finally reached the corridor taking her past the nurses' quarters, she heard hushed voices behind one of the doors—Nurse Franklin's room. If this had been another night, maybe a few months ago, she may have stopped to listen, but Sister Bernadette was too weary to listen, or to overhear snatches of the giggly, gossipy conversation that often carried into the hallway as she passed. This night, all she could hear was a familiar tune, from Nurse Franklin's record player, the Sister imagined. Doris Day, she now knew, was the singer. And there was that string section, and that horse-like beat. And the triumphant conclusion. "Secret Love". It had been such a hit a few years back that she had heard it on many a radio in patients' homes, or in the rooms of the nurses here at Nonnatus. Music was second-nature to Sister Bernadette. It had been most of her life, since she was a small girl singing in church in Scotland, and a tune, once familiar, would often remain in her memory. This was one such tune.

This song had meant nothing to her the first time she had heard it, except as a pleasant, catchy tune, but now? Now, it was the plaintive first verse of the song that carried the most weight. The victorious joy of the reprise at the end was as foreign to her as if it had been in a different language. What victory was there for her now? Secret love indeed. Love. She would barely even let herself think that word, but it was there, taunting her. Doris Day may be able to shout her feelings from the highest hills, but not Sister Bernadette. Not this distracted sister who did her best to stumble to chapel in the mornings and lift her voice in worship when all that had come to mind was that face that she couldn't bring herself to forget. Not Shelagh Mannion who once was, now a Sister whose calling had once been so clear, but now had become lost in shadow more often than not.

The song continued but Sister Bernadette didn't stop. She walked, slowly and with purpose. Her footsteps echoed softly on the tiles as she kept her eyes fixed on her goal-the darkness in the distance and somewhere on the other side of that darkness, her room. Her bed. Her momentary refuge. She heard the song trail off as she approached her door, and a pause before a new, even more cheerful melody replaced it. She couldn't place this one, but it was soon faded into nothingness as she reached her door, opened it, and shut it behind her, closing out all the sounds from outside. But inside her head, still, there was chaos.

 _ **October 1958**_

The stack of records sat beside the console in the sitting room at St. Anne's Sanatorium. The thin light of early morning emerged through the filmy curtains, as a lone figure sat with a suitcase beside her and a bus schedule in her hands. Shelagh Mannion glanced at the clock on the wall. Not much longer, she thought as she fidgeted with the schedule, trying to keep the times and locations straight in her head. She knew what she was doing today, or at least she had a good idea. For the first time in such a long time, she knew her purpose, and she was anxious to embark on the next step on this road. She glanced from the schedule to the records—a precarious pile of LPs and 45s perched on a small table beside the record player and the radio. A cluttered magazine rack sat on the floor next to the table, overflowing with outdated issues, in front of a bookshelf packed with hastily shelved volumes. These had been the sources of entertainment provided for the patients here, but Sister Bernadette, as she had been known until today, hadn't indulged much in these distractions. She had had enough distractions of her own.

She stood and walked over to the pile, answering that inner need to straighten the stack, knocking a few records off the top in the process. Reading the labels, she noticed most of them were a few years old, although they were in fair condition. She spotted some familiar songs and artists among them. As a sister, she hadn't kept too current on the latest star singers and hits, but she'd heard enough from the nurses, and she had a good memory. Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Doris Day. Doris Day—"Secret Love". That song that had once taunted her in the hallways at Nonnatus House as it wafted from the record player in Nurse Franklin's room. How she wished she'd never hear that song again that day, but now, not so much. Now, it meant something different. Now, on this day when she hoped everything would change, this song seemed more promise than annoyance. It was a good song; a pleasant tune. She'd liked it the first time she'd heard it, years ago as she had been preparing to leave a patient's flat after a delivery. Maybe someday soon she' d have a record player of her own, and she would take a record from her own collection, place it on the platter, lift the stylus, and switch it on. Just as she was doing at this moment in the stillness of this empty room.

Doris Day's voice filled the room as Shelagh stood back, looking around. This had been her home for a few months, but now she was going back to where she really belonged. Back to Poplar, and back to him, or so she hoped. The song that had been an unpleasant reminder was now a song of hope. Soon, there would be no more secret, at least not from him. She had resolved that much. Today, there was so much to look forward to.


	2. Chapter 2--Interlude

_**A/N-This is just a little moment I thought of from Patrick's perspective, from back when the world was very different for him, and for then-Sister Bernadette. This is the only chapter I plan to write from Patrick's POV. Everything else will be from Shelagh's perspective. This is the same day as the first part of chapter 1.**_

 _ **April, 1954**_

The doctor's footsteps echoed on the tiles in the shadowy corridor of Nonnatus House. The light through the windows was bright, reflecting the delightfully sunny weather outside. Patrick Turner glanced at his watch as he picked up his pace. It was a good day today. The consultation with Sister Julienne had been fairly routine, and there were no more house calls to make today. He'd been especially busy of late, and it was nice to have a light work day. He would have time to check in at the surgery and make it home, hopefully with enough time to greet Timothy as he returned home from school. Tim was a bright, energetic boy, almost 7 years old and always glad to see his father, who worked long hours and sometimes had to return home after the boy was in bed. Marianne, his wife, would save a plate for him from supper and tell him about Tim's day with a mixture of enthusiasm and resignation. Theirs was a happy home, but his wife hadn't been shy about letting him know the long hours weren't easy to cope with, especially for their son.

He smiled, thinking how pleased Marianne would be to see him arrive home ahead of schedule. He could see her broad smile and lively brown eyes in his mind, and hear Tim's exclamation of surprise when he would walk in the door and see his father there waiting, for the first time in months. Maybe he would stop on the way home and pick up a treat for the boy, and flowers for his wife.

His mind full of these thoughts, his eyes on the door at the end of the corridor, he didn't notice at first the source of the clear, pure voice that now greeted his ears, humming an unfamiliar melody. It sounded like a pleasant tune, but it was the voice that struck him, enough to make him glance around, only to see the petite, briskly walking Sister Bernadette approaching from the direction of the clinical room, looking straight ahead, her blue eyes bright behind her simple round spectacles and her expression cheerful, if a bit distant. He didn't know this sister well, but he had worked with her on a few deliveries and had been impressed with her skill, intelligence, and cheerful but efficient manner. He stopped, lifting his hand in a slight wave.

"Afternoon, Sister," was all he said, and she stopped in her tracks, humming silenced as she glanced up at him, her eyes widening ever so slightly.

"Oh," she said, giving him her attention. "Greetings, Doctor. Pleasant day, isn't it?"

He smiled. "Yes, it is."

She gave a slight nod in return before continuing on her way, resuming her humming of the wistful melody as the doctor headed for the door. Nice voice, he thought again briefly as reached the door, turned the handle, and headed out into the sunny afternoon, his mind refilling with thoughts of home.


	3. Chapter 3--New Beginnings

**_November 1958_**

"Look around as much as you like," he had told her, his crooked smile bright. "You'll be living here soon enough. Make yourself at home."

And so she had, or at least, she had tried. Shelagh couldn't help but feel awkward, standing here in the sitting room of Patrick's flat, the brown paper of the bag she held in her hands crinkling as she fidgeted with it. Patrick wasn't home just now. He'd been called out on a case. He'd been apologetic, but she'd told him there was no need. He was a doctor. This was his job.

She'd taken to spending her days here. Sitting with Timothy as he finished work from school, tidying up the clutter that had accumulated over the past few months. Finding her way around. Still, this didn't quite feel like her place yet. She knew it would, eventually. Or least, she hoped.

Alone in this moment, she stood in the sitting room staring down at the record player. She had examined the record collection a few days earlier, somewhat sheepishly, squinting at the spines of the records that had sat side-by-side in the cabinet. It wasn't too large of a collection, and there were several names she didn't recognize, and a mixture of styles—classical, jazz, popular vocalists. Some of the names were familiar, but only some.

"Anything you like?" Patrick had asked, joining her by the console, casting his eyes down at the records on the shelf.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure, really." She thought about the names on the spines of albums she'd perused. "We had a radio and a record player at Nonnatus House, but our collection was terribly out of date, I'm afraid."

Of course, there were the nurses and their own records, which Shelagh would overhear occasionally upon walking past on some evenings, but still even then, she would only hear pieces of many of the songs. The more popular singers she would remember, of course, because they were talked about enough. Still, her knowledge of popular music seemed woefully inadequate.

"Well, I can't say mine is particularly current, either," he had told her, gesturing at the turntable. " We can replace all this if you want. If you don't like them."

"No, it's fine," she told him.

He nodded, looking directly into her eyes. "Feel free to listen to any of it. No need for them to just sit here gathering dust."

"Perhaps I should," she said. "I don't know most of these. Maybe there will be something I like."

"I hope so," he said. "But don't feel obligated to keep anything you don't want." He took her hand. "Really. I haven't even heard most of it."

"Very well," she had said after a time.

That had been just a few days ago. Now, here Shelagh stood again, staring at the modest record console and its simple collection of records, mostly Marianne's, she had imagined. That was the assumption, anyway, when Patrick had said he hadn't heard most of them.

They hadn't spoken much of Patrick's first wife. It wasn't like avoiding the subject, though. There just hadn't been much opportunity. Their days had been spent reveling in the present, planning for the future—not dwelling in the past. Still, Shelagh couldn't help but think of Marianne Turner in moments like this, looking at this small collection of records, wondering which of these songs, these artists, had been favorites of this woman Shelagh—or rather Sister Bernadette-had been acquainted with in life, but did not know well. In fact, Shelagh wasn't even sure she had known Patrick's wife's first name until after Marianne had died. She had always been "Mrs. Turner" to Sister Bernadette. It was funny to think, now, of this woman Shelagh had barely said more than two words at a time to, with whom she had had little in common at the time, although she remembered her as a kind, pleasant woman. Still, strange to think how much they shared now, and how much more they would soon share—something that neither of them would have guessed.

And now here she was, the next Mrs. Turner, standing here clutching the crisp paper bag that contained something new. Something to add to the old, neglected collection. Something of her own.

She hoped Patrick would like it.

Glancing briefly at her wristwatch, Shelagh looked back at the door for a moment before turning her attention to the record player once again. She had no idea when Patrick would return, although he had promised he would try to be back before she had to return to her lodgings. She smiled, thinking of the small, light package she held and just what it meant to her. It was only one record, purchased only for one song it contained, but so much meaning in that one little song.

Taking the record out of its bag, she crouched down and carefully placed it among the others on the shelf.

 ** _March, 1959_**

It had been a short, simple honeymoon. Two nights in a West End Hotel. Simple from Patrick's perspective, but almost too extravagant from Shelagh's. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy being away. She had enjoyed it very much, in fact, but more for the fact that she and Patrick could finally be together, alone, as husband and wife, stroll along the crowded streets together just like any other married couple, not drawing stares or questions or gossip. And of course, there were the nights, lying in his arms, enjoying one another's touch, whispering things for nobody else to hear. Sharing one another, as husband and wife. It was still so new for Shelagh, but extraordinarily pleasant. And although it was time to return home, she looked forward to spending every night in Patrick's arms, to spending the days with him, to learning more and discovering more, and sharing more as the days went by. They had had only two nights in the West End, but now they had all the time in the world.

It was a bright afternoon as they finally walked through the doors of the flat, this flat that was now truly her home. He had insisted on carrying her through the door, making her blush and giggle. Still, it was nice. Nobody else was here yet. Timothy had spent the weekend at his grandmother's. He'd only been out of hospital for a short time, but Granny Parker had insisted. Now in a few more hours, Patrick would drive out there to collect his son, and Shelagh was excited for that, too. Now, officially, they would be a family. For now, though, it was just the two of them—Shelagh and Patrick, husband and wife.

There was a a glint in Patrick's eye as he set her on her feet in the middle of the sitting room, not removing his arms from about her waist. "Welcome home, my love," he told her, smiling. "And what would you like to do now? Looks like we have some time."

She returned his smile, looking away for just a moment as the sun streamed in through the window, calling her attention to the record console against the wall.

She returned his gaze, delighting in that meaningful look in his dark eyes—that look that was only for her. She knew what was on his mind, and it was an excellent thought, she had to admit. Still, there was one thing she wanted to do first.

"I have a present for you," she told him, stepping out of his embrace and taking his hand. He followed, his eyebrows raised in a curious expression as she led him over to the record player.

"A present?" He had given her a gift on their wedding night—a beautiful brooch; not full of diamonds anything too ornate, but just perfect as far as Shelagh was concerned. She hadn't given him anything, but told him she had something in mind for later. Come to think of it now, those may not have been the best words to choose. Still, she had been hoping for this moment, and now it had arrived.

"It's nothing extravagant," she added, to be answered by a light chuckle from her husband.

He took both of her hands in his then. "Shelagh, I'm sure I'll love it whatever it is."

"I hope so," was her answer as she stood for a moment, gazing up into his eyes. Then, carefully removing her hands from his, she bent down and removed the record from its place where she had stored it those few months ago. She had taken it out a few times and played it since then, but always when Patrick was away, as she had cleaned, or rearranged furniture, or emptied the small box containing the few possessions she could bring into the marriage—mostly purchased after she had left the order. There wasn't much left to move when their wedding day finally arrived. There had only been the two small suitcases containing the few items of clothing she'd managed to collect in the months since she had exchanged her simple blue habit for the worn old suit. Since then, the suit had given way to a more up-to-date, but still modest, wardrobe. Shopping was still a new experience for her, but one she was finding she could learn to enjoy.

Still, although the new clothes had been necessary, the most important purchase she had made, to her mind, had been this simple record album that she now held in her hands and found herself somewhat nervously presenting to her new husband.

"Doris Day?" He asked, glancing at the cover, his brow crinkling slightly.

She nodded. "You're familiar with her music?"

"A little," he answered, turning the album over to glance at the back. "But not much, I'm afraid. Is she a favorite of yours?"

Shelagh placed her hand on top of his as he held the album, still looking so perplexed that she almost had to laugh. "One song, really," she told him. She took the album then, turning away so she could take it out of the sleeve and place it on the turntable. "I hope you'll understand when you hear it."

"You have me intrigued," he said then, watching her as she lifted the stylus and switched on the turntable. "But then, you always do."

She looked up at him, smiling widely as the song started to play. After a moment, he reached out his hand and as she stood up, but she didn't join him right away. Instead, she simply stood there, watching his face.

"Just listen," she told him. And that's what he did.


	4. Chapter 4--Speaking, Singing, Shouting

_Early October 1959_

The album was cold in her hands, its surface mostly smooth, but showing some scuffs from wear. So many times had she brought it out now, alone and with Patrick. This record—this song—she'd presented him as a gift shortly after their wedding. This song they had danced to—well, more like standing and swaying—in their living room. This song had come to mean so much in the past few months. Now, as she sat here crouched by the record player, the room dim around her, her eyes barely making out the song title crisply printed on the unfeeling cardboard, she couldn't help but think back over those months and compare them to now. Now, her husband barely spoke to her. His smiles were rare and distant. They sat at the table for meals with polite smiles for Timothy's sake. And then there were the nights, keeping to their clearly delineated sides of the bed, Shelagh staring at the wall trying not to listen to his even breathing as he slept, his face aimed firmly in the opposite direction. Once there had been a secret love, and once—at last-it had been spoken, but now, there was no speaking, no shouting, barely even looking.

And here was this record, sitting in her hands, taunting her. What had this all been for? And what could she do now?

How many secrets had Patrick kept from her? Did she even know this man she had married? What else could he be hiding? Such an important chapter of his life, and he had never even given her an inkling of it before. Had he ever told anyone? Or was it only her he didn't trust?

No. That was cruel to even think. Of course he trusted her. Or at least he had told her he did. He was a good man. Perhaps she didn't know him well when they married, but she knew that now. Deception for the sake of deception wasn't in his nature. But still, now he would barely talk at all. Had they come so far in their relationship only to be stalled right at this place? Oh, how she wished she could talk to him again, if only he would let her. If only she would have given him a chance.

She couldn't get past that thought. A chance. A moment to speak. She had known he wasn't right. The way he had hesitated, stalled, evaded with everything to do with the adoption. She should have asked him, but no. And now, maybe she had missed that moment.

What should she do with this record now? Should she play it? Should she get rid of it? Should she take it out of its case and smash it against the wall? No. None of those things made sense, as much as she might feel like taking out her frustrations on an innocent LP. It wasn't the song that was the problem. It was a lovely song, and one day, Shelagh hoped, she would be able to listen to it again.

But for now, it stayed in its jacket. She turned it over in her hands again, staring aimlessly at the cover, not even seeing it, really. The only face she saw in her mind was not Doris Day's, but that of her husband, smiling, that light shining in his dark eyes just for her. Someday, maybe she would see that light again. Oh, how she hoped.

A click at the front door brought her back. He was home. With a quick glance again at the cover, she quickly stashed the record back in its place and stood up to face the door. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to bring a smile to her face, although she found it difficult to maintain a smile these days. Hopefully, things would change, but would they ever? Would that light return to his eyes? And when, if ever? Glancing ever so briefly back toward the record player, she set her face forward, squaring her shoulders and heading to the foyer to greet her husband.

 _Late October 1959_

Shelagh hummed softly to herself as she moved about the living room, trying not to make too much noise. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. The dim early morning light peeked in through the gap in the still-closed curtains as Shelagh went about her business, picking up records and sheet music that had been hastily stacked on tables the previous night. Neither she nor Patrick had had cleaning on their minds after their impromptu dance session by the record player. Still, even in the urgency of that moment, she couldn't bring herself to leave a mess. Hence, the quickly arranged stacks.

She and Patrick had retired to bed early the previous night, but they hadn't slept until quite late. Still, she found herself awake in the early hours of the morning, as had been her ritual for 10 years. Those routines are difficult to break, she had discovered. This morning, as much as she liked to lie there for a time and watch Patrick sleep, it was good to be able to rise before the rest of the household, to carry out this simple, necessary task.

So many records here, so much music. Some of this was here when she moved here, remnants of another life. Still now, most of it was new, bought for the choir, or for her own enjoyment. So many names here, singers and songs. It hadn't taken long to choose a song for the choir. It had to be simple, something easy to learn, and easy to remember. Jim Reeves was a new favorite she'd discovered on the radio, and she was glad for the album she had bought essentially on a whim a few months ago. "May the Good Lord Bless and Keep You" would be ideal, in simplicity and in sentiment.

She began to hum softly to herself as she picked up record by record, adding them to the stack in her arms, glancing at each label in turn. Picking up the next album, she stopped her humming as her eyes fell on a familiar name. Doris Day. She drew in a breath as a face came to mind—not Doris Day's but the dearest face in the world to her—a tall man with dark hair, a kind face and dark, gentle eyes. And that crooked little smile she knew so well now. Patrick.

They hadn't danced to this song last night—the dancing didn't last very long, in fact. But this song had been played so many times since that day they'd returned from their brief honeymoon. Listening, dancing, singing along, sometimes just humming without the benefit of the record. He had a lovely voice, she had learned, and sometimes, when there was nobody else around, he would sing this song to her. Only for her.

And then there had been the silent days, when he had hardly spoken to her, let alone sang. The dark weeks when they had co-existed in this flat together, but she couldn't call it living. So much silence; so much self-doubt. Now, all that was over. She sent up a quiet word of thanks as she stood there. Her husband didn't keep his voice from her now. They'd spoken more in the past few days than they had in weeks. He had even started singing again on occasion in their private moments—his voice strong and full of love.

She could almost hear it now. It was so clear, vivid in her mind, until she looked up and realized it wasn't in her mind.

There were those eyes, and that smile. There was that gentle voice, the look that was only for her. He leaned against the doorframe, clad in his dressing gown, his arms folded, waiting. When she looked up with a small gasp, he stopped singing and grinned. She tried not to drop the stack.

"Morning, my love," he told her.

Clutching the records closer, she stood up straight, returning his grin. After a moment, she glanced back down at the pile in her hands.

"I'm sorry if I woke you. I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to leave these like this."

He nodded, his grin softening to that marvelous little crooked smile. "Of course not," he said, his eyes sparkling as he walked over to where she stood.

"This will only take a few moments", she told him as he joined her, standing close as he placed his hand on hers on top of the stack, starting to hum the triumphant conclusion of the song.

"No shouting anything from the highest hills this morning, dear." She smiled. "We don't want to wake Timothy".

Patrick nodded, catching her gaze and not letting go. "I know," he said. "I don't think he would appreciate that, anyway."

"No," she said, clutching the stack to her with one arm and reaching up to touch his face with the other. "But I do."

There was no need to shout. The message was there, loud and clear.


End file.
